


The Splendor Is Waiting

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Wednesday One-Shots [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Rituals, Romance, Wizarding Traditions, light and dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry discovers a book in Regulus Black’s bedroom the summer after the war—a book that tells him of a series of rites once widely practiced among wizards of all kinds, to combat the enemy of both Dark and Light. Fascinated, Harry starts delving deeper, and finds himself developing a slow friendship with Draco Malfoy, who can tell him more. A story spanning five parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Book of the Heir

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my Wednesday one-shots, this time for imuptonogood, who asked for _something with Harry learning more about wizarding culture, and taking it seriously. Could be AU, so at any time 5th year onward. I'd love a light Harry (with that generous spirit he has) becoming entrenched in with Dark wizards (where Dark is not evil, but a cultural thing)_ and a Harry/Draco relationship. 
> 
> The title is taken from the poem “Glory and Shadow” by the Irish poet A. E.

Harry leaned forwards and curled his fingers around the edge of the small wooden panel, dragging it out of the wall. He was only vaguely curious, but even the curiosity was better than the deep void that had seemed to fill him since the end of the war and the defeat of Voldemort.  
  
At first, he’d been relieved that he was calm and not upset. And then the calmness had gone on and on, and he hadn’t cried at the funerals, and everyone had talked about shock, and the Healers at St. Mungo’s had treated him for that, but it hadn’t seemed to help.  
  
Nothing did, really.  
  
Harry thought he’d just poured  _so much_ into the war that he had nothing left. Maybe, in time, it would return. But until it did, he was no fit companion for Ginny, or anyone else grieving as much as the Weasley family was, or for Hermione, on her quest to retrieve her parents. So he had shut himself behind some newly impenetrable spells on the Black house and proceeded to wander around and investigate secrets in the house.  
  
The panel sticking out of the wall of Regulus’s room was one of them. Harry got it all the way open, and looked into the gap.  
  
There was a small black book there, bound with leather. Harry took it out and turned it over. It was stamped in gold, and there was a slight vibration through the lettering that reminded him of a heart.  
  
_The Book of the Heir._  
  
Harry smiled a little. The heir, huh? Probably it had come to Regulus because his parents had despaired of Sirius.  
  
Harry sighed a little when he thought of Sirius. Even that grief felt more real than anything he’d been through in the last few years. But he didn’t think that simply sitting around and berating himself for not feeling properly was the answer. If it was, then someone would have woken him up before now.  
  
He could take the book with him and read it, though. At least it was new. Harry tucked the book calmly into his pocket and sauntered down the stairs, going to the kitchen, where he could sit and eat the endless food that Kreacher was glad to make him and not be bothered by anything.  
  
*  
  
Harry lay awake in bed a week later, staring at the ceiling. His head was turning over and over like one of the curses he had seen the Death Eaters cast during the Battle of Hogwarts. He finally sat up and flicked his wand at the fireplace, lighting the flames again, when he realized that he wouldn’t get to sleep, anyway.  
  
Then he reached out and picked up  _The Book of the Heir_ again, flicking through the pages idly, although he had read them enough by now to know them almost by heart.  
  
The book spoke of a series of rites that were supposedly used by wizards all over the world to put—something to sleep. Harry let his mind skirt around that word, even though it wasn’t the one that the book had used. Then he nodded and let his mind settle on the word the book had chosen.  
  
_Rites against Shadow._  That was the biggest section of the book. Hell, it was practically the subtitle.  
  
Shadow was, according to the book anyway, an ancient force, the enemy of both Dark and Light. It wasn’t sentient so much as a state of being that could return if enough wizards didn’t do the rites to keep it propitiated. It didn’t participate in the conflict between Dark and Light. It didn’t crush them. It didn’t destroy them. It was  _nothing._    
  
Not a force of hatred or of love. In a world of meaningless, unmoving Shadow, there was no room for either Dark or Light. There was no room for change of any kind. There would only be one kind of light, one kind of weather, one kind of person—if any still remained—one kind of existence. One kind of state of mind. Nothing more than that.  
  
Harry nodded. Maybe that revelation wouldn’t have hit him so hard, but he knew how  _he_ thought of Shadow. He thought of it as the way that he had felt since the end of the war. Nothing mattered. Nothing would ever change again. Why not lie back and let events take their course?  
  
Maybe part of it had been natural shock. Maybe part of it had been a healing he needed to take time for. But the book said bluntly on the first page that that was one of the tricks of Shadow, and once it got hold of a wizard like that, it was hard to get the hold off again. And Shadow was particularly prone to reaching for wizards who had crossed the threshold of death in some way, or who had sat back and given up on life, or who had grown up in the Muggle world and never performed any of the rites that were supposed to hold Shadow at bay.  
  
Harry closed his eyes for a second.  _So basically, I was the perfect victim._  
  
But—and as he thought it, his hands closed on the spine of the book—he didn’t  _want_ to be the perfect victim anymore. He’d had enough of that with Voldemort. He was going to oppose Shadow in the ways the book suggested.  
  
Then Harry opened his eyes, and his mouth twitched a little. Well,  _sort_ of the way the book suggested. Yes, he wanted to live and have stronger emotions than simple nothingness and make changes in his life.  
  
But the sort of rites that he’d have to perform weren’t the ones the book offered. Light and Dark wizards—who sounded more and more like people who had just chosen different weapons to fight Shadow, to Harry—did different sets of them. And of course  _The Book of the Heir,_ having belonged to the Blacks, didn’t tell him the sort that Light wizards performed.  
  
Harry didn’t think he could just ask the Weasleys, either. They were Light, he had no doubt, but they had never said anything like this—about this—to him.  
  
So he would have to investigate and figure it out on his own.   
  
Harry looked down at  _The Book of the Heir_ with a certain affection anyway. Without it, he would never have known there was Shadow or what the malaise creeping over him might be. He might not have come up with the resolve to go back out into the wizarding world and even to Hogwarts, if need be, to pursue knowledge about the series of things he’d need to do.  
  
Harry patted the book gently on its cover and lay down in his bed. For the first time since the end of the war, his sleep was black, not grey.  
  
*  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and shoved himself back from the table in the library. It really was  _ridiculous_ that no book in the whole bloody place showed any sign of knowing what  _The Book of the Heir_ was talking about.  
  
Well, they did mention Shadow, and the rites that were supposed to prevent it from becoming prevalent. Harry had to admit that. If they didn’t, then he would have had to admit that  _The Book of the Heir_ was probably only something an insane Black family member had written and Shadow was a fantasy that didn’t exist after all and only coincidentally matched how he’d felt after the war.  
  
But all the books at Hogwarts said was that Shadow had been defeated, or chained, or put permanently to sleep, or something. And it was enough to play Quidditch and eat good food and cast pretty spells and do whatever else you enjoyed, that it was living well that made Shadow go to sleep. So there was no need for rites.  
  
By now, though, Harry rather liked the idea of having rituals that he could use to celebrate being alive, and an enemy to fight against that had tried to claim him and that he could shove away and yell at the way he’d done with Voldemort. And if the rites didn’t mean anything to him when he tried them, well. At least he would get to  _try_ them.  
  
If he could only know what they were, what they involved.  
  
Harry folded his arms and scowled. Books were no help. Light wizards he talked to hadn’t ever heard of the bloody things. He had tried to get a pass to the Restricted Section, and even told McGonagall and a few of the other professors why when they’d asked, but McGonagall had only got a complicated expression on her face.  
  
“Don’t you think you’ve struggled to conquer an implacable enemy long enough, Mr. Potter?” she asked. “Let someone else fight the battle, if it’s there to be fought. I assure you, there are wizards who would find such a thing stimulating.”  
  
Flitwick’s and Sprout’s reactions had been similar, except that Flitwick’s had involved more squeaking and Sprout’s more crying about what a “dear and brave” boy he was. And then Ron had said that Harry appeared to have come fully back to life, except that he was still (bewilderingly) uninterested in dating Ginny, and why did he need something like the Light rituals anyway?  
  
Hermione might have said something different, but she was still in Australia. Ron’s face was tense and drawn except on the rare days he received an owl from her, so Harry didn’t want to press him too much.  
  
Harry sighed. He thought he needed to ask a Dark wizard who wasn’t dangerous to him, who would at least know more about where to find the rites if not the rites themselves, and someone who he could press on the subject if they were reluctant to talk about it. With a life-debt, for example.  
  
And there weren’t a lot of choices when it came to that, honestly. And only one who was at Hogwarts.  
  
*  
  
“It’s  _private_.”  
  
Harry stared at Malfoy. He hadn’t thought he’d react like  _this_. He had expected a denial that Malfoy knew anything about Shadow and the rites that controlled it, or maybe he’d expected Malfoy to blow up at him for trying to use a life-debt to force him to listen. But instead, Malfoy had nodded when Harry mentioned the life-debts. Harry suspected Malfoy had thought he’d claim the debts long since.  
  
Now, though, when Harry had explained about Shadow, and the rites, and  _The Book of the Heir…_  
  
Malfoy stood there with his eyes closed and his face pink and one hand closed into a fist, as if Harry had asked him how many times a day he took a shit or something.  
  
“It’s private,” Malfoy whispered again, when Harry opened his mouth to say something. “No, I can’t discuss it with you. You should never have asked me.” He turned his head and opened his eyes, and Harry winced as if from something deadly. Malfoy hadn’t looked at him like that since the end of the war.  
  
Hell, he hadn’t really  _looked_ at Harry at all since the end of the war, but that only rendered the contrast more shocking.   
  
“Those rites aren’t a secret,” Harry said. “They can’t be, if wizards used to practice them all over Britain.”   
  
Malfoy’s hands moved restlessly for a second, and then he said, “You still can’t ask me. It’s—it’s something that needs to be done in  _private_ , Potter.” He eyed Harry for a second under his lashes, and then added, “Besides, they wouldn’t work for you.”  
  
Harry sneered impatiently. “Because I had a Muggleborn mum, I suppose?”  
  
“What?” Malfoy’s head reared back and his jaw dropped, and that was what made Harry listen instead of walking away. “Because you’re not a Dark wizard. I thought you knew that, if not anything else.”  
  
Harry snorted. “Idiot. I don’t want to practice  _your_ rites. I want to know where I can find a book that discusses the ones for Light wizards. Or if you knew them, then I wanted to learn them from you. I see now that I can’t do that, because if they’re all private and shit, you probably don’t know them. But can you tell me where to find a book on them?”  
  
Malfoy had straightened and was regarding Harry more intently. They were outside the school, near the Forbidden Forest. It was the only place Harry had thought private enough for a discussion like this, especially since Hagrid was visiting Madame Maxime in France and couldn’t interrupt.  
  
“You want to learn them,” Malfoy said.  
  
“It’s almost as if I’ve spent the last five minutes telling you that or something.”  
  
But he seemed to have lost the capacity to irritate Malfoy. Malfoy only reached out and gestured in the air between them, as if cupping an invisible face or shaping an invisible curve. “Light wizards don’t generally practice them anymore, you know,” he said. “They don’t believe in Shadow. Or they think they’re too modern and the rites are too archaic.”  
  
Harry nodded without taking his eyes from Malfoy’s face. He believed Malfoy when he said that he wouldn’t betray the Dark rites, but he seemed to be building up to a different revelation. The least Harry could do was give him some serious attention.  
  
And he had to admit, having Malfoy’s gaze on him made a small part of him feel satisfied and no longer ignored. It had been  _annoying_ when Malfoy wouldn’t even glance at him.  
  
“I know where I can get my hands on a book,” said Malfoy, leaning forwards and studying Harry. “And I’ll do it because I think you deserve the chance to know something like this. The Dark rites…” His face melted into something that Harry had never known before. “They’re beautiful.”  
  
_This,_ Harry decided after a stunned moment,  _is what wonder looks like on Draco Malfoy’s face._  
  
“Every wizard deserves to be a part of that, if they want it.” Malfoy looked him squarely in the eye. “And the book isn’t even technically illegal because it’s Light magic, just old and forgotten. But you’ll need to do two things.”  
  
Harry nodded. He didn’t think Malfoy was about to ask him to kill someone, or hurt someone, or even prank his friends. He was too serious for that.   
  
“First, you’ll need to pay me for the book.” Malfoy tilted his head back as if considering the leaves of the trees on the edge of the Forest. “The Ministry took enough money from my family that I can’t easily afford that sort of thing anymore.”  
  
Harry gave a choppy nod. He thought dwelling on that, or even speaking aloud right now, would just embarrass Malfoy further.  
  
“Second,” said Malfoy, and tilted his head back down so their gazes were locked again, “I want to instruct you.”  
  
Harry blinked, then studied him. “How can you, if the rites are private?”  
  
“The actual  _performance_ of the rites is private,” Malfoy explained tersely, and flicked his pale hair out of his face. “And I meant it when I said I couldn’t tell you, just explain the information. But the teaching was always meant to be passed one from one person to another.”  
  
Harry nodded, enlightened. “You can’t tell me, but you can show me.”  
  
“Exactly.” Malfoy gave him another squinting look. “We would have got on a lot better if you’d ever shown any interest in this before.”  
  
“I didn’t know they existed,” said Harry, and didn’t apologize, because he was done apologizing for his interest in the bloody rites. “Should I withdraw some Galleons from Gringotts and owl them to you, or what?”  
  
“That would be best.” Malfoy took another step towards him. The shadows filtering through the leaves layered his face with shining green and grey, very different from the lands and mists that Harry had been wandering in when he was still a victim of Shadow. “From now on, there can’t be an obvious connection between us, you understand? The teaching is also private, unless someday…” Then he shook his head. “You would never want to share this with someone else who I know and trust. It’s too…sacred.”  
  
_He tried to choose some other word,_ Harry thought,  _but that’s the one he came up with._  
  
Well, he would respect it. He nodded. “I understand.”  
  
“Good,” said Malfoy. He started to turn away, but hesitated. Then he turned back and gave a strange bow to Harry, placing one hand at his waist and sweeping the other arm behind him in a curve like a swan’s wing.  
  
“You’re making the right choice,” he said. “You’ll see.”  
  
And he turned and took off for Hogwarts.  
  
Harry leaned back against the tree behind him, and felt more content than he had since the end of the war.


	2. The First Rite

Getting the Galleons to Malfoy was simple enough. And when Malfoy lifted his head and fixed his eyes on Harry one morning, then turned away casually, Harry was prepared for the owl that came winging down the center of the Great Hall and made straight for him, hooting in agitation.  
  
“Whose owl is that?” Ron looked up from the mess of potatoes in front of him that he had already mashed flat with his fork, blinking. “Not yours, is it, Harry?” He looked as if he was perking up a bit when he said that. He had urged Harry to get another owl. Hedwig, he had said, wouldn’t want Harry to pine over her.  
  
Harry, who had been unable to bring himself to get another owl for much the same reason he had been unable to come out of Grimmauld Place that summer, only shook his head and reached out as the bird landed on the table. There was a heavy package slung around its neck on a leather cord. Harry wrapped a piece of bacon around a piece of sausage and handed it to the owl, which promptly ripped into it. Then he unwrapped the package.  
  
The leather cord turned out to be a tassel that was part of the cover of the book itself. Harry turned it over and over, nodding slowly. Yes, the book had a picture on the front of a golden patch that might, if you were generous in the way you interpreted it, resemble a flare of light, or Light, from a candle. The only words said simply,  _The Battle Against Shadow._ Harry couldn’t see any sign of an author.  
  
A gasp came from beside him. Harry looked up, curious. Ron must know more than Harry had thought he did, if he recognized the book, or what the book meant.  
  
But it was Neville, who leaned back and cast Harry a gape-jawed look. Harry blinked. Since the war, he had become used to the confident, self-assured Neville. He suddenly looked as if he’d been sent back in time about four years.  
  
“I didn’t know you were interested in that,” Neville whispered, glancing from Harry to the book and back again.  
  
Harry suffered a sudden qualm. Why hadn’t he thought of asking Neville? Of course his family was Light, and considering how stern his grandmother seemed, there might be a chance they would still practice the old rites. But it hadn’t even occurred to Harry, and it was too late now. He gave Neville an apologetic grimace and shrugged and said, “I started reading about Shadow over the holidays. There was nothing on the specific rites to put it back to sleep, though, so I asked someone to get the book to me.” With a heroic effort, he didn’t look over at the Slytherin table when he said that.  
  
“I could have helped,” said Neville, but he didn’t sound hurt. He just looked thoughtful. “We have a copy of a book—not this exact one, one like it—that you could have borrowed.”  
  
Harry smiled at him. “Well, if there’s anything left out of this book, I’ll come and let you know. It’s something I’d like to know a  _lot_ about.”  
  
“What is it?” Ron interrupted, and leaned over.  
  
Harry let him look at it willingly enough. Ron only snorted and sat back, shaking his head. “I never thought you’d be one to get into all that old stuff, Harry,” he said, and glanced up and down the table as though he was looking for Hermione, to report that to her.  
  
Harry waited for him to get over the sharp, inevitable sting of disappointment, and said as diplomatically as he could, “I started learning about it over the holidays, but Grimmauld Place didn’t really have much. There are separate sets of rites for Dark and Light, you know, and of course the library there belonged to Dark wizards.”  
  
Ron shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. My family left it all behind a long time ago. It seems pretty stuffy and traditional to  _me_.”  
  
Harry shrugged back. “If I don’t like it,” he said lightly, “then I don’t need to spend any more time reading about it.” He opened the book.  
  
Ron grumbled a little, but didn’t object. Harry smiled. He was glad. He wouldn’t have listened to Ron even if he  _had_ objected, but he didn’t want a bone of contention between him and his friends. Not now that he had started to live again.  
  
*  
  
“You understand now.”  
  
Malfoy’s voice made Harry blink and lift his head, but he didn’t jump. He’d been sitting on the edge of the Forbidden Forest for a while, turning the book over in his hands and sometimes reading a stray page. He’d done a lot of reading already, of course, so this was more in the nature of refreshing his memory.  
  
“Yes,” he said, turning and looking up at Malfoy. Once again, Malfoy stood where the shadow of the leaves could cross his face. Harry hoped that wasn’t a bad omen, given what they were fighting.   
  
“Why I can’t tell you. Why I have to show you.” Malfoy came a step closer, then stopped as if frightened by the sound of his own foot crushing the moss.  
  
There were so many things Harry could have said to that, but instead he only nodded and murmured, “Yes” again.  
  
Malfoy exhaled once, then smiled. Harry almost envied him that smile. It looked like it came from someone who was totally in control of his situation and knew all the nuances of it. That was a smile he would have liked to give. But he didn’t envy Malfoy completely, because soon Harry thought he would be able to do the same thing.  
  
He put the book down beside him and looked at Malfoy. “Will the gaps in the sentences be filled only when you show me things? Or can you cast some spell that will fill them now?”  
  
“They can be filled when I’m holding the book,” said Malfoy quietly, and sat down beside Harry, reaching out to hold onto the edge of the cover. Harry bent over and watched small lines of ink spring to life, scribing in the missing words that had so puzzled him.  
  
More than half the sentences in the book that described the rites were incomplete, ending a long way before the period, or missing several words before suddenly springing to life again and continuing as if nothing had happened. Harry had thought at first the book was defective, then that it was under some enchantment that prevented someone from seeing the words until the spell was broken. He’d been up half the night trying to cast the right charm or countercharm.  
  
But then he had started paying more attention to the contents of the unbroken paragraphs around the rite descriptions. They had said that the rites could not be performed alone. They were always for  _communal_ celebration. There had to be at least two wizards, representing different souls that could beat back Shadow. Members of a family were the most usual, but if a wizard had formed a teaching relationship with another, then that teacher had to join with him in the performance.  
  
Harry devoured the newborn words, saying absently, “Do I have to get another Light wizard to do these with me? I mean, if Light and Dark wizards do different series of rituals, then I don’t want you to have to do something you can’t do, anyway. I think Neville would…”  
  
Malfoy’s stiffness and silence finally penetrated his awareness, and Harry looked up. Malfoy was staring at him with narrowed eyes, looking as ready to charge him as a centaur.  
  
But, finally, Malfoy sniffed and relaxed. “I will put this down to ignorance,” he said.  
  
“Do,” Harry muttered, dropping his eyes. “I couldn’t read the whole book before, of course.”  
  
Malfoy sniffed once more. “You can’t perform the rites alone at all. There are two different sets of them, however. If  _Longbottom_  had been your teacher,” and Malfoy’s voice cast serious doubts on Neville’s competence, “then you would do one set. But there is another set, one that meshes with the rites I know. Light and Dark wizards dance opposite one another.”  
  
Harry blinked. When he thought about that, it made a certain amount of sense, although he would never have considered it before, given how the Book of the Heir was devoted to one set of Dark rites and how Malfoy had acted at their first meeting. “Okay. Can we only do the rites when we’re both holding onto the book, though? That would be inconvenient.”  
  
Malfoy leaned back, although he kept one hand on the book’s cover, and shook his head. “It should be much easier now that we’ve revealed the truth once. We can read them together, and check our understanding of them as necessary.” He paged through the book to a rite that Harry had had to skip altogether, as everything except one paragraph of text at the beginning had been nearly blank. “I suggest we start with this one.”  
  
Harry leaned over and began to read. It sounded simple, he had to admit. They had only to find a circular place, which, as the book explained, could be a clearing, a hollow, or a ring they created themselves with salt or the like. And then they would acquire a number of things, like a piece of obsidian for the Dark wizard involved and a piece of topaz for the Light one, and they would set them out, and…  
  
“Wait, wait, we slide our  _souls_ into each other?” Harry leaned back with his spine prickling and stared at Malfoy. That sounded similar enough to some of the things Voldemort had done with his soul that Harry was reluctant to attempt it. “What good will that do to defeat Shadow?”  
  
Malfoy rolled his eyes, but he didn’t sniff again, or back off, or look offended. “The rite calls it souls, but it’s a fancy way of saying that we’ll read each other’s minds without being able to use Legilimency. It’s pretty intimate, Potter. I don’t think there’s any reason to suspect that it will actually affect our souls.”  
  
Harry nodded. So it wasn’t an absolute guarantee, but the rest of the rite sounded, well, soothing. The sort of thing he had wanted to perform for a while. He glanced up again. “When can we start?”  
  
*  
  
“I got a letter from Hermione.”  
  
Ron said it quietly, but there was little else that could have affected Harry as strongly as those words. He immediately sat up and smiled at Ron, who was hunched over his breakfast like a dragon protecting her eggs. Harry had thought he was guarding his sausages, but it made more sense that it would be the letter.  
  
“That’s great!” Harry leaned over, but Ron only turned a little to the side and protected it some more, so Harry let his hand drop. He was confident enough in their friendship now that he didn’t need to insist on their sharing every secret. “What does she say?”  
  
“That she found her parents. She’s still trying to remove the Memory Charm from them, but she doesn’t think it’ll take—that long.” Ron spoke slowly, as though he was reciting the letter from memory right then, although his eyes were fixed on empty air. “And she’ll be back home in about a month.”  
  
Harry sighed with relief. “Good. I’ve missed her.” He paused and studied Ron again, his red cheeks and slightly dazed expression and his tight grip on the letter, and then nodded. He wasn’t going to ask about the rest of what the letter contained, in case it was something potentially embarrassing. “Thanks for letting me know,” he added casually, and turned back to his own breakfast.  
  
He still watched Ron from the corner of his eye. Ron waited until Harry had been eating a few minutes, then smoothed the letter out on the table in front of him and gave it another hard, dazzled stare.  
  
Harry smiled and went back to reading about the rite he and Malfoy were going to perform.  
  
*  
  
“Potter?”  
  
“Here.” Harry stood up. They’d agreed to meet near the lake, in a place where Malfoy said it would be easy to flatten the grass and create the sort of circle that the ritual required. Harry had accepted that without question. Malfoy had been doing this sort of magic a lot longer than he had. It made sense that he would know things like that.  
  
Malfoy appeared, carrying a huge dish of what looked like tarnished silver. Harry blinked and looked more closely. On the dish were a piece of obsidian, a slender silver rod, and something else, a black ribbon, that Harry didn’t remember the rite describing.  
  
“The ribbon is to give us something to keep us grounded while we’re tumbling around in our heads,” Malfoy said, when he noticed Harry looking, and put the dish down on the ground. “Mutual Legilimency can be overwhelming.”  
  
Harry nodded his understanding, and stepped back to retrieve his own piece of topaz while Malfoy set about trampling down the circle. It had been easier to get hold of than he’d thought it would be. While McGonagall might not understand why he wanted to perform the rites at all, she was more than willing to let him go to Diagon Alley to find what he needed. Harry had followed Malfoy’s instructions, going into a jeweler’s shop and sorting through the pieces of topaz he found until one  _felt_ right, warm and throbbing against his palm.  
  
His own silver was in a ring shape. Harry picked it up and turned around, balancing the topaz in his left hand and the silver in the other.  
  
Malfoy, on the other side of the circle exactly opposite him, gave Harry a deep smile and lifted his right hand, where the obsidian was. Harry found his left arm rising at the same moment, opposing the topaz to Malfoy’s obsidian, although he hadn’t remembered that was what he should do. A swift, thrilling rush traveled down his spine, the way that it had when he first saw Hogwarts, and he smiled.  
  
Malfoy’s smile widened, turned softer. He whispered, “I call upon the darkness that beats at the heart of this stone, born in the greatest light of all, of fire.”  
  
“And I call upon the light that beats at the heart of this stone,” Harry answered at once, “which lay in the greatest darkness, beneath the earth.”  
  
Malfoy held out his silver rod. Harry moved a step forwards with the circle and slipped it over the rod. For an instant, a great clanging noise reverberated in his head, much louder than the soft  _ting_ of metal touching metal.  
  
Malfoy stepped back, bearing the encircled rod with him, and put both pieces of silver down on the grass near his feet. Harry had known that was going to happen, but he was unprepared for the sensation that flooded him when it did. His heart felt  _stretched_ , as though a literal cord extended from his chest and moved with the rod. He took a deep breath and blinked, surprised.  
  
Malfoy didn’t show the same discomfort, or maybe he was simply too near to the silver to feel it the same way. He dipped his head to Harry and held out his free hand, the one that didn’t clutch the piece of obsidian. Harry moved up and put his hand in it.  
  
Everything around them began to turn. Harry couldn’t decide later if it was the circle they had made that was turning widdershins to the rest of the world, or if it was the world that had begun to rotate. Or even just the patch of sky above them, which was where he noticed it most. Smoke had surged up and swallowed the edges of the circle, or pure darkness. There was gold around them, too, the last lingering rays of the sun in the high trees of the Forbidden Forest, but it seemed suddenly much more prominent.  
  
“Harry,” Malfoy whispered.  
  
Harry started and turned back to him, distracted from the rest of the world by the sheer passion in Malfoy’s voice. He hadn’t known  _that_  was going to happen, either, at least not without Legilimency.  
  
But Malfoy moved towards him and slid the hand that held the obsidian down Harry’s back to his waist, where he clutched at him. Harry moved in, borne by the ritual or the pressure of Malfoy’s hand, or both—he didn’t know—and hooked his arm around Malfoy’s shoulders in return.  
  
They stood together, so close that Malfoy’s body heat made little hairs on Harry’s arm rise. Malfoy loosed a harsh, panting breath. Harry leaned his head against Malfoy’s chest and trembled a little.  
  
“Don’t know how—how you can—” Malfoy said. Harry looked up and met his eyes again, remembering distantly that that was one of the requirements of the rite.  
  
The instant they locked gazes, Harry was swept away in a flood-tide.   
  
All around him were images that jumped cloudily to life, images that Harry knew. How many times had he walked through the large dining room at the Manor? How many times had he slapped the standing stone at the edge of the grounds for luck as he spread by it on his broom? How many times had he stood wide-eyed before the black candles that his mother had brought with her on her marriage, candles that would grant you a wish if you could look at them for five minutes without blinking?  
  
 _Never_.  
  
Harry knew that, in one part of himself. These were Draco’s memories, and not his own.   
  
But the sense of reality overlay his physical senses, and he knew what it was like to stand taller than he did, to have a different kind of grace on a broom, to look at Lucius Malfoy and feel complicated love flood his heart. He knew what it was like to toss back his head laughing at one of the rare jokes Theodore Nott would crack in private. He knew what it was like to move through the Slytherin common room and feel all eyes following him, at least before his family had conclusively lost their power.  
  
It was intoxicating. It was exhilarating. It made Harry want  _more, more, more_ , and he reached out possessively into Draco’s mind without even thinking about it.  
  
He thought he heard a deep breath, but not a protest, and then the memories grew more emotional. There was a black whirlwind of fear that covered the last two years, the hard press of the sink in the bathroom where he had come to cry under his elbows, the pain where _Sectumsempra_ had cut his chest open. There was the sincere and utter contempt for his vows once he saw past the power that the Dark Lord used to command his Death Eaters and he saw what he had sworn himself to follow. There was the endless, quiet, unrolling sunshine on the day that he had stumbled out of the Ministry and known he was acquitted.  
  
Draco was peering and pulling through Harry’s mind at the same time. He knew that. But it was a fact shut behind glass, not mattering. Maybe just because so much of his life was public property already, he was less bothered about what Draco would find.  
  
There were shadows dancing around him, concealing things that Harry couldn’t quite see. He knew he could push and find them, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to enjoy the shadows themselves, pooling and flowing over the floor, and skittering across the walls, and he reached out with one hand to pull them close. They weren’t the same as Shadow, they were warm and deep and comforting, and—  
  
He landed again with a jolt in his body and on the ground. As he sagged to his knees, he realized abruptly that he and Draco had forgotten to hold onto the ribbon that Draco had brought. He shrugged a moment later. It wasn’t as though it mattered all  _that_ much. Neither of them had hurt themselves in the fall.  
  
“Well,” Draco said.  
  
Harry wondered for a second if he should go back to thinking of him as Malfoy, but that was honestly impossible now. He smiled up at him, and Draco smiled back and gently let go of Harry’s hand. Harry did it at the same time, shaking his head.  
  
“How does that rite actually fight Shadow?” he asked, sitting back on his heels and rubbing with his hands at his eyes. “I mean, it’s good that we got to see more of each other’s pasts, but I could have done it with someone I already knew well.”  
  
“It fills you up with a sense of another’s life, is the way that the books I’ve read explain it,” Draco said, and smiled at him again. He didn’t seem inclined to brush dirt off his clothes, or stand up and walk away, like Harry had assumed he would be immediately after the rite. He only reached out and absently touched Harry’s shoulder, as if confirming that it wasn’t  _his_ shoulder any longer. “The more you have to think about, the more you have to live for, the less easy it is to fall in line with what Shadow wants of you.”  
  
Harry nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”  
  
“It does.” Draco abruptly looked him in the eye. “And so do a whole lot of other things I never thought much about.”  
  
Harry caught his breath. Draco wasn’t smiling right now, but he didn’t look as though he was going to punch Harry or something like that (which Harry had also thought about as a possible consequence of the ritual). He simply looked…interested, and wise, and confused.  
  
“Likewise,” Harry said, a second after he should have.  
  
Draco inclined his head and stood, reaching out with one hand. It was so natural for Harry to accept the help up that he thought nothing about it until he had actually done it. Then he and Draco stood there for a long second, staring down at their joined hands, before Draco cleared his throat and turned to pack up his ritual ingredients.  
  
Harry slid his piece of topaz into his pocket, and nodded at the silver rod and ring, still joined. “What do we do about that?”  
  
“Oh, they stay joined,” Draco said. “As a permanent record of the rite.” He slipped them reverently onto the dish he had carried outside with him, and turned to walk back into the school.  
  
Harry walked with him. He could feel Draco’s soft breathing, hear the sound of his footfalls, and felt a prickling strangeness all over his skin. After all, he knew how those things felt from the inside, now.  
  
Draco looked at him from the corner of his eye. Harry squinted back, a little.  
  
“The next one needs to be done at a full moon,” Draco said in a rush. “Can we do the next full moon in a fortnight, or would you like some more time to study the ritual?”  
  
Harry didn’t even have to think. He wanted—he  _hungered_ to have an experience like that again. “A fortnight’s fine.”  
  
Draco’s mouth relaxed in a smile. “Good. I’ll need to have my mother send me a few things, but she can owl them in time, no problem.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes instead of replying, and listened. Even the soft grunt Draco made as he shifted the dish in his arms, and the rustle of his clothing, seemed special.  
  
 _I know him._  
  
And it was much harder than Harry had expected to part from Draco when they reached the point in the Hogwarts entrance hall where they would have to go their separate ways. He cleared his throat a couple times before Draco finally gave him an awkward nod and turned towards the dungeons.  
  
Harry watched him go. Draco didn’t look back, but he did walk with his head higher and his back straighter than usual, Harry thought. He knew Harry was watching.  
  
Content that it should be so, Harry went to bed.


	3. The Full Moon

“Hermione says,” said Ron, and then paused and took a drink of pumpkin juice as if that would keep him from saying something he regretted.  
  
“Hermione says what?” Harry asked, and did his best to smile and speak in a relaxed voice, so Ron wouldn’t think he was annoyed by the interruption. Yes, Harry had been reading the book of rites, as best as he could when half the words were still missing from the full moon ritual, at breakfast, but he’d already had to pause because he’d dripped honey or butter or tea on the pages.  
  
“She says that she should be back even earlier than she expected. She says.” Ron cleared his throat and rattled the letter he held. For an instant, Harry thought Ron would let him read it, but Ron had been pretty private with Hermione’s letters, and Harry thought she was just writing to  _him_ , not to Harry. It didn’t bother him, particularly. When Hermione had left, Harry had been so heavily under Shadow’s influence that he hadn’t even shown up at the Portkey site to bid her good-bye. “She said something to me.”  
  
“Yes?” Harry asked quietly, encouragingly. He reached out and played with the teapot for a second. Neville was simultaneously trying to read a Herbology book and give both of them his own encouraging glances.  
  
“She proposed to me.”  
  
For a second, Harry was sure that he couldn’t have heard correctly. Then he set his book down and gaped at Ron. Ron stared back with red cheeks, moving one hand as though he thought Harry would snatch the letter out of his hand and he was determined to protect the actual words Hermione had written.  
  
“ _Really,_ mate? That’s wonderful!” Harry leaned over to shake his hand, and then, because that didn’t seem enough with such momentous news in the wind, to pound him on the back. Ron’s face was flaming by now, but he accepted the congratulations. Harry grinned at him. “Were you surprised because you were going to propose to her first?”  
  
Ron looked down at the letter and shook his head. “I never—I mean, I knew I wanted to marry her, of course, but I never anticipated that it would be like this, you know? I thought we were going to wait until after we were out of Hogwarts to get married.” Then he cleared his throat. “I mean, I suppose we technically still will. But even the proposal I thought was going to wait.”  
  
“Hermione knows what she wants,” Neville said from the side, making Ron start and turn around. He seemed to have thought that nobody but Harry had listened to what he was saying. “Congratulations, Ron, really. If anyone should be together, then it’s you two.” He leaned out with one hand extended.  
  
Ron hesitated for one second, and then grabbed Neville’s wrist and pumped furiously. “Yeah, thanks,” he said.  
  
“I’m glad  _someone_ knows what they want,” said Ginny from a little further down the table. “How much longer were you going to dance around her, Ron?”  
  
As Ron spluttered and tried to answer, Harry examined Ginny carefully. But no, she wasn’t looking at him, and she didn’t sound spiteful. She was just grinning at Ron, excited. Good. Harry was glad that she didn’t think Harry should have proposed to her, or anything. Or at least, it didn’t sound as if she thought it.  
  
Harry just didn’t think that would happen, now. He was figuring out what he wanted, but he wasn’t sure yet.  
  
He hoped the rites would help him determine it.  
  
As he turned back to his book, he happened to see Malfoy looking over from the Slytherin table. Malfoy gave him a significant glance, and Harry grinned back and tipped his head at Ron before he thought about it.   
  
Malfoy relaxed, picked up what looked to be a cup of coffee, and turned back to the chatter of the Slytherin table as if nothing had happened.  
  
 _And nothing did, really,_ Harry told himself, with a sharp shake of his head.  _I mean, maybe Malfoy just wanted to know what the fuss was about._  
  
As he turned back to the book, equally sharp prickles danced up and down his spine, making him wonder how he could be so sure that it wasn’t just that, and why it mattered.  
  
 _Maybe that’s something else the rite will tell me.  
_  
*  
  
Harry stopped cautiously on the edge of the lake, and looked around curiously. Malfoy had told Harry to meet him here at moonrise, but Harry didn’t see him yet. Only the water, flooded by moonlight.  
  
Malfoy had also told Harry not to bring any ritual tools. He had said that he would organize everything. When Harry had asked why that was—he had vaguely thought that Light wizards should be especially powerful during the full moon, which meant he would have to bring a lot—Malfoy had said, “Correspondences. I’m a Dark wizard, I conduct the Dark rite, and it requires more preparation during a time of such light. But a Light wizard gets his power from the sky.”  
  
Harry looked up at the moon. He had never paid that much attention to it during most of his life, except after his third year when he had started to pay attention to it because he would be thinking about Remus. But what did it mean, really? What did it mean  _for_ him?  
  
“I’ll show you what it means.”  
  
Harry started and turned around. It was sort of creepy that Malfoy had reached out and heard his thoughts, or maybe he had just seen what Harry was thinking from his posture and the position of his head. Or used Legilimency from a distance? Although Harry thought even Snape would have had to be looking into his eyes.  
  
But the minute he saw Malfoy, he calmed down. Malfoy was carrying a heavy silver bag over one arm, and he set it down beside him and nodded. Standing like that, with the moonlight splayed across his face like the touch of a loving hand, he was Draco again. Harry found an easy smile, and then the smile found  _him_ , and there was no forcing about it.  
  
“What do we do first?” he asked. “That ritual was half-complete, which is better than some of them without you, but.”  
  
“Everything is better with me, Pot—Harry,” said Draco, and smiled at him as he bent down and undid the clasps of the bag. Harry cocked his head, curious. It looked a lot like one of the big purses that some of the elderly Muggle ladies Harry had seen carried, especially around Privet Drive. There was a huge set of handles, and it might have swallowed up half the grounds without trouble. “First, this.”  
  
Draco took out a single thick black candle, and set it in front of him. He glanced around for a moment as though estimating distance and other things Harry couldn’t imagine, then nodded and reached out with one easy, slashing motion of his hand. The candle lit, although Harry hadn’t seen the spell he cast.  
  
He blinked. “How did you do that?”  
  
Draco looked up at him. “You don’t feel it?”  
  
Harry breathed in for a second. “I  _smell_ it.” Yes, a thick scent that he’d never experienced before was coming to life around them, a scent that mingled pines and fresh-cut grass. And then it changed and moved again, like the scent of Amortentia, and he thought he smelled rain.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco. “I’m not surprised that it would manifest to you through another sense. Light and Dark wizards.” It sounded mild, an explanation, not a protest or a justification. He bent down and lit another candle beside the black one. This one was white. “Now. Watch me. You’ll know where to come in for your part of the rite.”   
  
He closed his eyes and began softly to breathe. Harry watched him, blinking and wondering what would happen next. He was drifting into a sort of trance, he thought, although Draco was the one who was breathing in the careful, controlled pattern. The soft, soothing sounds were echoing the pace of his own heartbeat, and Harry would have thought, if someone asked him, that he would have fallen over and died if his heartbeat was that slow.  
  
But he didn’t. He was breathing the pattern of the winds, he thought, of the rolling lake. And of the light falling from the moon, although of course he didn’t know how to see it radiating from the moon in any pattern.  
  
There was the pattern, though. Harry found that he did know the moment Draco meant, the exact moment to step forwards and interfere. He moved his foot forwards and snuffed the light from the white candle with his boot.  
  
The moonlight flared around them, a shimmering sphere. Or half a sphere. Harry realized he was standing inside the white half of it, large enough to surround him completely, and looking towards Draco.  
  
There, the sphere was completed. A black half had joined it, and Draco held out his hands. The black candle floated between them, although if it was still burning, Harry couldn’t see it. Instead, a ball of pure night seemed to hover above it, absorbing the light but letting through the moonshine that formed the other half of the sphere.  
  
“I acknowledge the dark side of the moon,” Draco whispered, “the side never seen by human eyes, but always present, always influencing the light.”  
  
From the silver bag, moving as if suspended on invisible strings, rose a swaying object that Harry’s eyes at first refused to see properly. Or maybe it was passing through shadows and he  _couldn’t_ see it properly. Either way, it swayed the other direction, and Harry recognized it this time.  
  
A choked noise escaped his throat.  
  
It was one of the silver instruments from Dumbledore’s office, the ones that Harry had smashed so many of in his temper tantrum three years ago. It spun softly on its axis as it passed into the center of the sphere, exactly halfway between them. It paused there, but continued to spin as it hovered.  
  
Then something else rose out of the silver bag. Harry strained his eyes. It was a replica of his Invisibility Cloak, translucent, so that it didn’t make what it passed in front of invisible. It swayed beside the silver instrument.  
  
After that came something soft and shining and flame-colored. This didn’t have a recognizable shape. It moved between the silver instrument and the cloak, and they let it come. It hung there, unmoving. Harry squinted and tried to will it to become a phoenix or something, but it never did. It was content to be itself, apparently.  
  
“The symbol of your past regret,” Draco whispered. “Of your present desire. Of your future hopes.”  
  
The silver instrument made sense, Harry supposed. He had a lot of regrets concerning Dumbledore. But he didn’t understand the other two. He shook his head. “I don’t want to hide,” he muttered. “I want to face up to what’s coming.”  
  
“It might mean that you’re hidden by Shadow.” Draco’s voice was uncertain now, not the firm tone he had spoken in when announcing what the images represented, and Harry stole a glance at him. His face looked endearing like that, with wide eyes and a bitten lip as he squinted at the images floating in the center of the circle. “Or something. I don’t know.” He sneaked a glance at Harry as if thinking that would make him storm off in disgust.  
  
“It’s all right,” said Harry, and smiled at him. “And the fire?”  
  
“I think that your future could be bright, but it’s undefined,” Draco said, and he had gone back to sounding confident again. “You haven’t molded the fire into a shape yet. Given that you’re trying to recover from Shadow, that makes sense.”  
  
Harry nodded. It did. And in the meantime… “What about you?”  
  
Draco lifted the black candle and puffed on the ball of night hovering above the wick for an answer. Harry thought he saw it bulge and ripple, and something small and almost unnoticeable pass from it to the silver satchel sitting beside Draco. In a second, three images had arisen from the bag and were tracing shimmering trails of grey back and forth across each other.  
  
Draco’s face looked strained. He closed his eyes. Harry wondered if he was afraid of what the images would form into, and almost stepped across the circle to comfort him, but fear of disturbing the rite kept him in place.  
  
The images finally settled opposite the ones that Harry had conjured, hovering themselves, and then burst into soundless explosions of black and grey. When Harry could see them again, he blinked and stared.   
  
One of them, the one that stood opposite the silver instrument and so probably embodied Draco’s past, was a very familiar shape, the sooty snake and skull of the Dark Mark. Harry caught Draco’s eye, and nodded. There was no need to explain that one. And he hadn’t explained his own curious image to Draco, anyway, so it was only equal treatment.  
  
The one opposing the Cloak was a wand. A hawthorn wand that Harry had an acquaintance with, in fact. He whistled softly. “Do you want to tell me why you’re afraid of your wand?” he asked.  
  
“I’m not  _afraid_ of it,” said Draco. “But it shows my struggle with my own magic. My wand didn’t adapt easily to coming back to me, you know. It struggled, and fought, and it—why am I telling you this?”  
  
Harry glanced across the circle again. Draco had his face buried in one hand, and the other hand raking through his hair as if he hoped to smooth it down that way.   
  
“It’s okay,” Harry said quietly. “Would it help if I dueled you for it or something? Would the wand switch its allegiance back to you?”  
  
Draco blinked, Harry could see from the motion of his eyes from the side, but didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he turned and faced Harry instead, cocking his head.  
  
“You’re so different from what I thought you were,” he breathed. “Even knowing that these rites usually open the Dark and Light wizard to each other if they—if they do them properly, I didn’t expect this.”  
  
Harry smiled. “Well, so far this rite doesn’t seem as intimate as the last one,” he admitted, and looked at the image that represented Draco’s future, ignoring the mutter Draco gave that sounded like, “Just wait.”  
  
The softly shimmering globe that turned in the place of the future image made Harry wonder if it was a magical artifact for a second, but if it was, it didn’t resemble one that he’d seen before. It was black and gold, and it was—  
  
Oh. It was the sphere of light and darkness that enclosed him and Draco, only in miniature. He turned back to Draco, his skin softly prickling again the way it had before the rite.  
  
Draco steadfastly avoided his eyes. But Harry put his hands together and clapped them softly, and Draco glanced at him before he could stop himself.  
  
“It’s all right,” said Harry. “If your future is part of these rites, if you want…” He paused, not even knowing how to name the thoughts that were flashing through his head. “If you want to be with me beyond the ending of these rites,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t object to that.”  
  
Draco swung to face him, his eyes wide and his face blazing with some emotion that Harry didn’t think had a name. Or maybe it didn’t have a name for  _him_ , because he had never seen something like that in Draco Malfoy’s face before. He extended a hand, and Draco moved forwards this time, across the middle of the circle, and clasped it. The images disappeared with a soft pop as he did so.  
  
Harry shivered. The touch of Draco’s hand on his own should have been warm, he thought, but instead it felt cool, as though the full moon had infected Draco’s skin with its own coldness. He drew Draco nearer, one arm around his shoulders and one around his waist, and Draco let himself be drawn, his eyes as wide and his face as soft as though he was dreaming.  
  
When they were close enough to each other that Draco’s hips bumped his, Harry found out what Draco had meant about a Light wizard not having to do as much preparation for this rite.  
  
The air around Harry shimmered, softened, transformed. He knew he was standing next to the lake with Draco beside him, but he was also soaring, floating, above the ground, speeding over the Forbidden Forest. All he had to do was half-lid his eyes, and the sounds of the lapping water on the shore faded. He heard the rustle of leaves instead, and felt something soft and warm in his hand.  
  
 _Draco’s hand._  
  
This time, it was warm, the way it should be. And when Harry looked off to the side, he found Draco flying beside him, his face turning towards Harry and his smile so bright that it was like a second moon.  
  
Draco would never be a Light wizard. But that didn’t keep him from shining with a light of his own.  
  
The image, or vision, or whatever it was, wrapped them for so long that Harry nearly thought he was  _there,_ drifting on the wind like a bird, without a broom, above the Forbidden Forest, and holding Draco by the hand, and hearing the leaves rustle and the lazy birds chirp and Draco’s heart and his own beat. But then the vision faded, and they were standing on the grass again, close together.  
  
It should have been awkward.  
  
It wasn’t.  
  
Harry studied Draco’s chest in front of him, the slight ripple his heartbeat made under the cloth of his shirt, and the only unnatural thing about it to him was that he couldn’t hear Draco’s heartbeat as easily as he’d been to a short time ago. Then Draco reached down, slid a gentle hand around his jaw, and tilted his head back.  
  
Harry went with it. Dimly, he knew that a short time ago, he would have shivered at the thought of Draco Malfoy having him by the throat in such a way. But this wasn’t a short time ago, and he met Draco’s eyes without fear.  
  
Draco leaned down towards him. His eyes were enormous, gleaming, in the moonlight. Harry held still, not sure what was going to happen. He knew Draco must have shared the vision, or a similar one, or he probably would have asked Harry why he was standing there and staring at Draco like an idiot.  
  
“Where did you get all those images?” Harry blurted out.  
  
He regretted it a second later. Draco sprang back from him as though some sweet tension between them had been snapped, some support that was keeping him on his feet. He folded his arms and turned away from Harry, kicking at the ground for a moment. He sent a clump of grass flying, and shivered.  
  
“I just want to know how you knew what to bring if you didn’t know how the images would come out,” Harry pursued, hating the way his voice sounded thin and reedy, but also knowing that he might as well go on and try to get the answers, now that he was here. “I mean—you said you brought lots of things in the bag, but you didn’t say that they would turn into those. How could you know what they would turn into?”  
  
Draco took a deep breath, and answered. “I brought what the rite said to bring. It’s a collection of feathers, stones, metal—all sorts of natural things—that can take on the form of the images when the rite starts. The rite transforms. It transforms darkness into light, and the other way around.” He faced Harry, his arms folded and his face as stubborn as a bull’s. “I don’t know how that happened. That’s part of the mystery of the rite.”  
  
Harry nodded hesitantly. “You—you were going to—” He stopped. He didn’t know how to name what Draco had been going to do to him.  
  
“This is another reason that I had to show you, and not tell you,” Draco whispered fiercely. “We’ve been in each other’s souls, as the first rite said. Did you think I could go unaffected by that? Did you think  _you_ could?”  
  
Harry took a step back, unnerved by the intensity in Draco’s voice. “I didn’t really know what would happen,” he confessed, shaking his head. “You forget how new all of this is to me. I—I thought that we would become friends. Or teacher and student. And that was before I knew that Dark and Light wizards could perform the rites together. I thought you would point me in the right direction and pat me on the shoulder and send me off.”  
  
“No.” Draco’s smile was light and merciless. “Of course not.” He took a step back towards Harry, who found himself tight, thrumming, with fear and excitement. “It’s going to be more intimate than that. Always. Sometimes people become siblings in spirit, and sometimes they become friends for the rest of their lives. If there’s a big age gap between them, then yes, they might become master and apprentice.” He took a breath that seemed to draw in some of the moonlight that hovered around them. “But it isn’t going to be that way with us, is it, Harry?” From the slight choke in his voice, Harry thought he had tried to say “Potter” there, but the sheer intensity of the situation wouldn’t let him. “We can’t let the tension between us explode any other way. We’re going to be lovers. You know it. I know it.”  
  
“I didn’t know it until just now,” Harry said, with absolute truth. “I—that’s why you’re angry. Because you thought I knew and leaped back on purpose when you were going to kiss me.”  
  
“Yes,” said Draco, and relaxed the way Harry had sometimes seen birds do, smoothing down all his feathers. “You didn’t know?”  
  
“I hadn’t the slightest suspicion,” Harry said hoarsely. His whole world was his heartbeat, and Draco’s gaze.  
  
Draco held his eyes challengingly. “And are you going to back out now?”  
  
“How  _can_ I?” Harry asked honestly. He hadn’t the slightest idea, not when he could feel the curve, the deep thrum, of the passion around them, calling them on. “I couldn’t give up the rites. And I can’t give you up.”  
  
Draco stood gazing into his eyes for long enough that a cloud went over the moon. Then he bowed and turned slowly, picking up the silver bag and carrying it towards the castle again.  
  
Harry watched him go this time, not trying to catch up and walk beside him. He had a lot to think about.  
  
Including what would happen.  
  
But what he had said was true. He wasn’t going to back off, because he needed this.  
  
 _And wanted it,_ he thought, and although he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, not even Draco, he walked back to the castle thrumming with desire.


	4. The Dark Moon

Harry noticed it everywhere he went over the next few days. It was like he always knew exactly how much distance was between him and Draco—once again it was no trouble to call him that even outside the confines of the ritual. He could turn his head, and he knew Draco was on the other side of the Potions classroom even before he looked. One morning when he didn’t see Draco at breakfast and thought he’d slept in, he had his head turned away from the doorway when Draco did come in, but Harry knew at once.  
  
Draco seemed much the same way, only it seemed more obvious to Harry because he could feel the stares, too. Draco didn’t seem to glare or even stare dreamily, the way Harry knew he did far too often. He only looked at Harry, calmly, and then away, with the satisfied expression of someone thinking about their own skill at something.  
  
It would have irritated Harry, but the pounding in his blood as he anticipated the next ritual was too demanding. Besides, Ron was too wrapped up in writing wedding plans to Hermione to pay much attention.  
  
Neville, though, reached out and gripped Harry’s arm one evening about a week after the full moon rite when Draco had left the Great Hall and Harry got up to go after him. “You don’t want to celebrate the rites with me?” he asked in a low voice.  
  
Harry blinked at him. “What? I mean—” He flushed, suddenly not knowing if he was even supposed to talk about the rites with someone else if he had already accepted Draco as a teacher. “I have someone who’s working with me.”  
  
“Hmm.” Neville’s eyes slid to the corridor outside the Great Hall, and then came back to him. “And you’re getting along all right?”  
  
Harry touched a hand to his hair, and ruffled it a little. “You can’t not get along when you’re doing the rites,” he said honestly.  
  
Neville’s eyes widened, and his hand fell away from Harry’s arm. Harry flinched, worried that Neville was about to scold him, but Neville just huffed a laugh and waved his hand. “Fine. Go on, then. I probably just made an enemy by touching you.”  
  
Harry blinked, and then blushed. He didn’t try to argue, though, because Neville was giving him a knowing look, and that was—that was not on, discussing the rites with Neville or anyone else who would have to know what was going on anyway. He cleared his throat.  
  
“I’m just going to—go,” he said awkwardly.  
  
“Yes, you need to,” said Neville, his face alight with something too gentle to be glee, but not really like any other emotion that Harry was familiar with, either. “But remember me for a rite that’s bigger, that doesn’t need to be celebrated by just two other people. I would be happy to celebrate it with you.”  
  
Harry stared, startled, but then felt a prickling pull on his arm. Draco was waiting for him, and Harry knew he was impatient. That sensation was new, and vaguely unpleasant, but he had to go.   
  
He nodded hastily to Neville, said, “I didn’t know there were rites that could be performed with more than one other person. I’ll remember!” Then he turned and ran after Draco, out of the Great Hall.  
  
Draco grabbed his arm the minute he did, and swung him around. He leaned over Harry and stared at him the way he had during the last rite, when he and Harry had almost kissed. Harry looked at him defiantly, tilting his head back so that he could meet and hold Draco’s eyes. It was his right to talk to who he wanted. He hadn’t actually agreed to take Neville as his teacher in place of Draco or anything like that.  
  
“He was close to you,” Draco said.   
  
A neutral statement, but it felt more threatening than that to Harry. He let his head tilt further back and his chin come up and his eyes lock on Draco’s. “He didn’t try to take your place,” he said. “And he’s not interested in me romantically. You don’t have to worry about that.”  
  
“I wasn’t  _worried_ ,” Draco said, but then went on when Harry was opening his mouth to argue the point. “Anyway, we have more important things to talk about. The next rite that we can perform is at the dark of the moon. Will you do it with me?”  
  
“ _This_ dark of the moon?” Harry resisted the temptation to take a step backwards, which wouldn’t help when Draco was holding onto him anyway. “I thought you wanted more time between the rites. More space.”  
  
Draco’s eyes widened. Then he moved closer, and stood next to Harry, not in an intimidating way, just as if he wanted Harry to feel all his body heat.  
  
“What,” he whispered, “would give you  _that_ impression?”  
  
Harry swallowed. His ears were ringing. His head was reeling, and it was hard to remember why he had thought Draco would want to wait. Maybe to give them both time to recover from the intensity that had exploded between them during the last rite.  
  
Draco snorted softly and reached up to cup Harry’s cheek. “The intensity isn’t going to just disappear,” he whispered. “And we need to be together, you and I. It’s still awkward for us to do that in classes or where everyone can see. I know. But if we try to wait and not resolve this…” His head tilted, and his eyes were huge. “Harry, I  _need_ this.” He took Harry’s hand and laid it flat on his own arm.  
  
Harry gasped. There was so much heat suddenly blazing up from Draco that he looked at his face. “Do you have a fever?”  
  
“No,” said Draco. “I have an unsolved case of rite desire. I need you. And you need me the same way.” He reached out one hand and brushed the backs of his fingers against Harry’s face. Harry had to close his eyes at the overwhelming rush of sensation. “I think you’re feeling the same thing. You didn’t know what it was, so it was easier for you to ignore it.” He paused. “Can you do that now?”  
  
Harry had to shake his head. He hadn’t realized that knowing where Draco was and knowing when he was looking at him was rite desire instead of some side-effect of the rites in general, but now the need was there, buzzing beneath his skin like a swarm of bees without a home. He reached out and squeezed Draco’s hand, not able to speak.  
  
“Good,” Draco whispered. “The dark of the moon rite isn’t complicated, but the bulk of the preparation is on you this time, as the Light wizard. I think we ought to go and study it.”  
  
When he pulled gently on Harry’s hand, Harry didn’t resist.  
  
*  
  
Harry leaned back on the grass and slowly reached out his hands the way that the book said he had to. Around him was the circle of salt he had scattered from the central point, and beyond that, the ring of trampled grass Draco had prepared. They were doing it on the opposite side of the lake this time, away from both the castle and Hagrid’s hut, to avoid awkward questions in case someone should look out.  
  
“You’re all right there, Harry?”  
  
Draco’s voice was a calm, normal thing in the darkness that seemed to be gathering around Harry as his eyes sought the moon in the horizon and found no reassuring light.  _Not this time,_ Harry thought, and his hands closed on the stones that were above his head, reachable only when his arms were spread-eagled like this. “Fine,” he said. “I can do this.”  
  
“Good,” Draco said, and he held his wand out. The tip blazed with soft black light the way that the black candle had in the last rite. Above it—although he didn’t know how he could see through it, or see Draco’s face by it, when it technically wasn’t light—Harry saw Draco smiling at him. “Look up towards where you feel the moon is, and call to it.”  
  
Harry wondered how he was supposed to know where the hell the moon was. There was no crescent, no solitary spot of light to guide him—  
  
But wait. His eyes went to one place in the sky, and lingered there, the way they lingered across the room when he was looking at Draco. Harry nodded his head against the earth and opened his lips. The rite had said that he would know what to sing when the moment came.  
  
 _Sing?_ Harry didn’t have much of a voice on a good day. He hoped that this night, when he was nervous and shaking with the expectation, the impact, of the magic and his desire, wouldn’t prove him even worse than he thought he was.  
  
But the sound welled out of his mouth as if it was coming of its own free will, with nothing to hold it back. It wavered and fell up and down, slid and whistled back and forth, although it wasn’t a whistle. It sounded as though a werewolf had shrunk down and grown a slight bell of a voice.  
  
Harry tensed a little. He thought he sounded ridiculous, and he wasn’t sure what would happen next. He hesitated.  
  
“Yes, that’s right,” Draco said.  
  
The  _satisfied_ sound in his voice made Harry open his mouth wider and let the song keep coming through. He didn’t think he was the only one singing, not really. Other Light wizards, others who had stood or lain in this exact place during this exact same rite, would have had the same voice. The turning earth beneath him and the turning moon above him had heard this song before. Ancestors and kin in spirit would have sung like this.  
  
Harry gasped suddenly. It felt as though an anchor had suddenly sprung into place beneath his heart and yanked down into the earth. Harry lay there, still gasping. And managed to understand what had happened when he thought about it.  
  
He’d gone so much of his life with no past, no family, no certainty about what had happened when his parents died or where he came from. The Dursleys’ lies had been brief. They hadn’t told Harry any details about the accident they had claimed killed his parents. They had dwelled, instead, on the awful things that his parents had supposedly done when they were alive.  
  
But now, Harry  _knew_ he came from somewhere. He knew it as surely as he knew the grass beneath him grew in soil.  
  
And when he looked up at the sky again, reeling through the center of himself that had firm foundations now and was no longer just a platform drifting in space, he saw the moon.  
  
There was a flat circle floating in the air, nothing like the shapes that Harry had seen the moon make when it was a crescent or waxing or full. This was like a smaller circle within a larger one, but Harry couldn’t see the larger one; he was sort of guessing that it existed. Darkness and not light reached out towards him.  
  
“You’re seeing  _through_ the moon,” Draco whispered. “To the side that human eyes normally never see.”  
  
 _My ancestors would have seen this,_ Harry thought, and lifted one of his hands, the left one, up towards the beaming dark moon.   
  
It was the one that held the piece of smooth black marble Draco had placed on the ground when he had come out earlier. It was his sole preparation for the rite, and even then he hadn’t fussed over the place, only plopped it on the ground. Harry had had to place his stone in relation to that one.  
  
The marble grew lighter and lighter as Harry’s hand traveled upwards, until at the top of its arc it was weightless but still dragging Harry’s arm along. Harry felt as if he was floating in deep water. He stared at his hand, feeling dreamy, and then his fingers parted. The black marble was gone.  
  
Instead, his palm cradled a tiny pool of moondark.  
  
Harry stared. It was cool on his skin where light would have been warm—or at least, sunlight would have been warm—and it thrummed as though he was holding onto the string of a vibrating harp. Harry didn’t know what to do with it for a long second.  
  
Then his right hand, the one that held the piece of white quartz he’d had to contribute like he had the salt, rose and came to a hovering halt next to the left one.  
  
Harry opened his hand. He thought he still held the quartz, because there was  _some_ kind of weight there, and what else would it be?  
  
But when his fingers parted, his hand was absolutely empty. Harry stared, and breathed. Then he saw the light, which shimmered and played over his fingers in a way that made it hard to see at first. Only when Harry cupped his palm the way he had with the moondark did he see the small reflection of a nonexistent full moon.  
  
“Nonexistent right now, right here,” Draco breathed as he stepped towards Harry. “The light shines somewhere else. The moon reflects the sun, and the sun never stops shining, simply because it’s not here right now.”  
  
Harry lifted his head. He knew what would happen next, because the rite had told him in detail that it didn’t use when describing what would happen to the stones. Now he understood several references that had been obscure before.  
  
But he still wanted to see it happen.  
  
Draco reached out to his right hand and gently tapped Harry’s palm with his fingers. The pool of moonlight flowed into his hand, and he brought it up to his mouth. Then he arched an eyebrow.  
  
 _Oh. Right._ Harry held his left hand to his own mouth.  
  
Draco nodded, and Harry found that they didn’t need to count to three or anything to coordinate their swallowing. It simply happened. They parted their lips and stuck out their tongues and scraped the little moon-pools into their throats at the same time. Harry felt a tickle like a sour sweet on his teeth for a second.  
  
Then his body arched off the ground, and he nearly cried out. He would have, he thought, if all the air in his lungs hadn’t suddenly become darkness.  
  
His head was spinning. His world was diving, splitting, separating. He could see through his own eyes, he could feel the sensations in his body, and he could feel from inside Draco’s skin at the same time.  
  
It was like the first rite, the one where they slid their souls into each other. Harry had wondered, when he read the description this morning, what the point of  _this_ rite really was. It seemed to repeat what had gone before.  
  
But while that had mostly involved memories, some of which happened to be memories of living inside the same body as Draco, this one was physical sensations only. Harry knew how sour sweets tasted to Draco (horrible). He knew how his sobs had torn his chest the night after the Battle of Hogwarts, when he finally realized that Voldemort was dead and he could live the way he wanted. He knew how much his little finger, jammed against a door, could hurt, and he knew the curve of his hands as he gripped his broom.  
  
He knew the way that Draco would move when he made love, what it was like to be inside his body.  
  
Harry shuddered and shivered and opened his eyes when he was back in his own body completely, the darkness that had granted him access to Draco’s sensations gone as quickly as it had begun. He wondered if Draco would be staring at him in shock or amusement. After all, Draco knew now the absolute lack of sensations for Harry in regards to making love. He would—he would laugh or something. He had to.  
  
But Draco was kneeling above him, the sight startling Harry enough to make him buck the way he had when he first swallowed the moondark. He hadn’t felt Draco move near, and he thought he should have, with his constant awareness of Draco lately.  
  
And there was no laughter in his eyes. The minute Harry met his gaze, he felt stupid for thinking there would have been. Draco looked at him heavily, silently, instead, and then reached out and slid one hand down the side of Harry’s face, across his ear.  
  
“I’m going to have you now,” Draco said, voice still as heavy as a stone being dragged across the ground.  
  
“And I’ll have you, too,” Harry retorted, although he thought it was a little spoiled by his breathless groan at the end.  
  
Draco slung a leg over Harry’s body and leaned down to kiss him. This time, Harry welcomed it. Before, the intensity had been almost too much. Now, the swarming beneath his skin was worse, and he knew he could let it out if he kissed Draco.   
  
Now, the thrilling in his veins wasn’t enough. He wanted, he wanted, he  _wanted,_ and knowing what he wanted wasn’t scary. It was freeing.  
  
Draco reached under him, murmuring something, and gathered his body up. His wand was in his hand, and he cast a spell that mounded the earth beneath Harry, pushing his arse up. Harry laughed in delighted surprise and spread his legs.   
  
Draco was the one to look at him and tremble, then, and it was a delicious sight. Harry smiled at him and held still as Draco Vanished their clothes, then conjured a slippery liquid with a twist of his wand. Even knowing  _why_ Draco knew that spell didn’t make it a bad thing. It was wonderful, at the moment, because Draco was going to be his.  
  
No one else had made love to Draco like this, as part of the rites. Harry felt very good right now, his breathing swift and steady, like he was running through a forest without tiring or slowing down.  
  
 _This is life._  
  
And Harry could see, now, why a rite like this, which had seemed so strange to him when the book first described it, would play its part in defeating Shadow.  
  
The smile lingered on his lips as he kissed Draco and Draco smeared his fingers on Harry’s face in retaliation. That just made Harry snicker, because of course Draco would need to conjure more lube.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said simply, either still reading Harry’s thoughts because they were still joined or just reading his expression. He waved his wand and coated his palm again. “It means I’ll spend more time here, and that’s not a loss.”  
  
Harry’s breath caught in his throat for one ridiculous moment. Then it caught because Draco was easing his fingers inside Harry, and no matter how ready Harry had been for this in one part of himself, it still hurt. He bit his lip and spread his legs, tossing his head in silent objection, in pain.  
  
“It’ll be all right,” Draco said, and held his eyes. “You remember how I breathe when I’m getting ready to hop into the air and chase the Snitch? Breathe like that.”   
  
“I shouldn’t even know that, how am I supposed to remember that with all the memories I have—” Harry began, but the memory was there, after all, when he reached for it. He breathed in and breathed out, and the sharp tingle through his chest made him relax at the same moment as Draco’s fingers eased completely into him. He leaned back his head on the soft pillow of the grass and smiled dazedly at the distant sky. He thought he could see the glinting edge of the invisible moon again.  
  
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Draco whispered, and memories flared to life in Harry’s head, memories of making love and using spells and—other experiences that he hadn’t known he would have, or that he understood. Harry reached out and caught hold of Draco’s hand and kissed it passionately in return.   
  
“Good,” Draco said, and smiled at him as his fingers went deeper and deeper, and Harry caught his breath again, and expelled it again, and then Draco leaned over and kissed him again.  
  
Harry opened his mouth, reveling in the taste of moonlight. Draco dropped slowly back from him, leaving his mouth in place as long as he could, and there were some wet sounds as he slicked himself up. Then he murmured, “Ready?”  
  
Harry nodded, and Draco eased forwards and into him. Harry caught his breath this time and didn’t immediately let it go, even when Draco was urgently muttering at him in his ear to do so.  
  
It was so  _good_.  
  
This time, the burning had been transmuted, like the taste of the moondark as it continued down his throat. Harry could feel it coming, could feel it coiling on the edges of his perception, but it didn’t dominate things. Draco was there, and it was  _good_ , and Harry reached out and caught Draco’s head and dragged him down to kiss him.  
  
Draco went with it, his eyes so bright that Harry thought the moonlight was still alive in him and shining out through his face. Then he sat back up and began to move, and Harry laughed softly as the motions shifted his arse on the cushion of grass.  
  
“You aren’t laughing at me, I hope.” But Draco’s voice was soft and peaceful, dreaming, not painful and poking the way it would have been if he was really convinced that Harry was making fun of him. And he kept thrusting, which was the most important thing at the moment. Harry reached up and caught his hand, squeezing it hard.  
  
“No, of course not,” Harry said, and tilted his head back as he felt the thrusts inch him almost off the grass-cushion. “The tickling of the grass on my skin, and the way it feels.”  
  
Draco seemed content to accept that answer, and shoved once more back into him. This time, he didn’t object when Harry caught his breath. Harry thought he almost liked it, the sensation of making Harry feel so much at one time.   
  
 _You must know my body from the inside out, too,_ Harry thought, and caught Draco’s hand and squeezed it again, feeling the intensity of bone and flesh there, the warm purr of blood in the veins.  _Someday you’ll know this from the inside._  
  
Draco’s eyes flared open, and he smiled down at Harry, as if hearing and sharing his thoughts. He probably was, Harry thought, staring back at him. He knew they had a connection between them still, because of the rite, but he couldn’t actually feel Draco’s thoughts touching his or anything like that. It was probably because his head was full of sloshing light. Memories. Thoughts. Being.  
  
 _Sensation._  When he came, it was like being flung off a cliff and finding out he had wings he’d never noticed. He tumbled, and then he flew.  
  
When he opened his eyes again, Harry couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing at first. Then he discovered it was wisps of soft blond hair in front of his face, and they stirred when he breathed on them. He reached up and tugged lightly on them.  
  
“Yeah,” Draco said sleepily from the middle of his chest. “We’ll get up and go back to the school in a while.”  
  
But it was a long while, and in the meantime, Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and held him in the midst of his own thundering heartbeat, happy beyond happy.


	5. The Celebrants

“Harry.”  
  
It was just a simple word that Hermione spoke, but it made Harry feel as if he had jumped off a trampoline and would never hit the ground. He grabbed her around the waist and hugged her as hard as she was trying to hug him, which meant a lot of tangled-up arms and bruised ribs. Hermione finally broke away, laughing a little and mopping with a handkerchief at her eyes.  
  
“You look great,” Harry said honestly, studying her. And she did. She was crying at the moment, of course, but she had a more settled, thoughtful look than Harry had seen on her for months before she left, and her skin was a little tanned, and her hair looked as though it was several shades of brown now, rather than just one.  
  
“Oi!” said Ron loudly to his right. “Eyes off my fiancée!”  
  
“I’ll just have to get my own,” Harry said, backing away with a smile. He didn’t miss the way his two friends perked up, but he turned and looked past them, towards the Slytherin table. Draco was staring hard at him.  
  
 _He didn’t object to me hugging Hermione,_ Harry thought. Their intense desire to touch had died down a bit after they had completed the rite at the dark of the moon that demanded such an overwhelming connection. But Draco would still want to know if Harry was going to get a girlfriend or fiancée or something like that, Harry was certain.  
  
Harry gave Draco a grave smile and started to sit down again. But Hermione had turned and followed the direction of his eyes. Of course she would have, he decided a minute later. Returned from Australia and full of new wisdom and thoughtfulness and balance or not, she was still Hermione.  
  
“Why are you looking at Malfoy?” she asked, and turned to Ron as if he would have the answers.  
  
Ron raised his hands. “I wrote to you about that! Those rituals that Harry wanted to practice, holding back Shadow and that sort of thing. Well, he’s been doing them with Malfoy.”  
  
Hermione’s head practically swiveled around, so fast that she almost broke her neck, and she stared at Harry. “You said you had to do them with Light wizards,” she said. “That was why that book wouldn’t work for you, because it was full of the rites the Dark wizards used instead. What are you doing performing them with  _Malfoy,_ Harry?”  
  
Harry grinned at her. “I’m doing them with Draco, actually. I don’t call him Malfoy anymore.”  
  
Hermione blinked and opened her mouth, but no words came out. Harry laughed at her, and moved around the table. Draco was striding over towards them, and he doubted that he would stand being left out of the conversation for long.  
  
“There are rites that Dark and Light wizards can perform together,” Draco said smoothly as he came to a halt behind Harry and casually wrapped an arm around his waist. “Because they are both equally opposed to Shadow. I got Harry a book on them, and we’ve performed three of them together.” He smiled down at Harry.  
  
Harry smiled back, temperately. He knew Draco was reeling as much as he was in the aftermath of that last rite. They had studied together, and met and talked together, in the last few days about things that weren’t the rites. They had to find a way to balance outside the ritual circle, Harry thought, or they would only come together, only matter to each other, when they were inside it.   
  
He was at least interested in seeing if they could do more than that.  
  
“What made you want to tutor him at all?” Hermione had found her voice, probably rescuing it from somewhere at the bottom of her throat.   
  
“Because I would always want to rescue another wizard from the gripping tendrils of Shadow,” said Draco. He had let go with the arm around Harry’s waist—somewhat to Harry’s disappointment—and was considering Hermione with an opaque glance. “I wondered if you were in thrall to it before you left. But if you were, you’ve cast it off.”  
  
“I never was,” said Hermione, and she at least looked intrigued, glancing back and forth between him and Draco as if she didn’t know what had happened, but didn’t object to it. “I didn’t think that Shadow even existed.”  
  
“Not many people believe it does, anymore,” said Draco evenly. “That’s another reason I wanted to help Harry. He could have gone to Mind-Healers or something else, but he was seeking an old way. A wizarding way. I wanted to show it to him. The more people who walk along that path and keep it open, the more future wizards will seek it, too.”  
  
Harry blinked. Draco hadn’t explained it to him like this, but then he supposed he hadn’t asked. And it made sense. Draco had always been devoted to his pure-blood heritage, and his face was shining now with the force of his reverence, his belief. Harry had simply never seen him promote it like this.  
  
 _Well, you wouldn’t, would you?_  
  
Harry nodded to himself. From here on out, he would ask. He doubted that the rites against Shadow were the only ones that existed.  
  
“Could someone else do the same thing?” Hermione was looking extremely thoughtful, brain already running down a new path. “Or is it something that Light wizards and  _Muggleborns_ couldn’t do?”  
  
 _Uh-oh._  There was the defiant tone in Hermione’s voice, the same one that Harry had always heard when she talked about house-elves, the one that said she had suddenly remembered who she was talking to. She had her hands clenched down at her sides as if she was going to try to strangle Draco, and her eyes glinted harshly at him.  
  
“Light wizards can do the other series of common rites,” said Draco. “There are books on that, too.”  
  
“But why not the series of rituals that you and Harry did?” Hermione demanded, stepping forwards. Harry looked at her in vague alarm, not sure what was about to happen. “What about  _that_ series? Why can’t I do them?”  
  
“Because they require both a Dark wizard and a Light wizard,” said Draco. He was looking at Hermione with a sort of patience that Harry found unfathomable, unless it was that Draco had a lot of patience for someone who was interested in his culture, the way he’d had it for Harry once he found out Harry was interested in something pure-bloods used to do. “And I don’t think that you’re about to become a Dark witch at this stage in the game.”  
  
Hermione narrowed her eyes a little as if studying something down a blurry telescope. Then she abruptly nodded. “You’re doing all right so far, Malfoy.”  
  
“Of course I am.” Draco turned and cocked his head whimsically at Harry. “I have someone I want to get along with, and I know his friends are important to him.”  
  
Harry smiled back. He hadn’t really explained to anyone what had happened between him and Draco so far, and that was only partially because he didn’t have the words to frame such an intense experience. Neville already knew, from the way he sometimes looked at Harry, and Ron had been too preoccupied with Hermione’s imminent return to care.  
  
“That’s the only reason you want to get along with him, then?” Hermione was bristling again. “Because we’re important to him? Not for our own sakes?’  
  
Draco rolled his eyes for the first time, but it didn’t look as condescending and dismissive as Harry had assumed it would become once he did it. “Think about it, Granger. I don’t  _know_ you. I only know what my own preconceptions told me. And you’re not exactly acting friendly right now, either. It would be a presumption to say that I should want to get along with you, when I have no idea who you really are.” He looked directly at her, and then at Ron, who was standing off to the side and watching everything as closely as Hermione. “I’m not going to be presumptuous.”  
  
A second later, Hermione closed her mouth with a little click and stared at him. Then she turned to Harry. “How long has he been like this?”  
  
Draco cleared his throat. “Standing right here.”  
  
“Since the beginning of the rites, you’ve been like this,” said Harry, and raised his eyebrows at Draco before turning back to Hermione. “To me, at least. I think that maybe he could be even nicer, but there’s something still wanting between you.”  
  
“Yes,” said Draco unexpectedly. “Besides lack of knowledge.” He straightened as though someone was about to cast a Wind Charm at him and try to blow him over. “Granger, Weasley, I’m sorry.”  
  
“For  _what_?” Hermione’s voice could have scoured paint.  
  
“For calling you the insults that I did,” Draco said. He glanced at Ron. “For making fun of your family for being poor. For—following the Dark Lord without considering what he was clearly about.” He grimaced. “For what happened to your brother, Weasley. I’m ashamed of that. I should never have let the Death Eaters into the school.”  
  
“And have you  _paid_ for that?” Ron jumped in.  
  
“The Malfoy vaults had one Galleon left in them when the Ministry was done,” Draco said. Harry could feel Draco’s tension under his hand.   
  
“I didn’t mean literal payment,” Ron snapped, and his hands firmed into fists. “Have you—”  
  
“It’ll be a long process,” Draco interrupted. His eyes were narrow, but he was keeping the way he might have snapped restrained. Harry knew what the effort was costing him because of the way that Draco’s arm had tensed against his. “But I can describe some of the things that I’ll do, and have done, if you meet me in a more private place.”  
  
Ron and Hermione both blinked, as if it hadn’t occurred to them that they were standing in the middle of the Great Hall. Then Hermione nodded slowly. “Fine. The Defense classroom, this afternoon, after the last class is over?”  
  
Draco slowly nodded back. Hermione cast a  _Tempus_ Charm, squeaked, and ran to gather up her books, saying something incoherently about “kindness about letting me join in the middle of the year, and I’m going to waste it!” Ron lingered to cast one more glance at Draco before he ran after her.  
  
“There should be a celebration coming up soon that multiple Light and Dark wizards can join in together.”  
  
  
At first, Harry thought Draco was speaking, and was wondering whether he would be  _willing_ to share such a celebration with Hermione and Ron. Then he saw that Draco was silent, staring at Neville, who had spoken. Neville leaned an elbow on the table and winked at Harry.  
  
“Probably not in that book,” he continued, as if nothing was wrong. “But I think if you look in other books, you might find one. And I’d like to be considered. Probably Ron and Hermione would, too.” He picked up his satchel and walked off towards the greenhouses.  
  
Draco exhaled slowly. Harry could feel him shaking. He punched him gently in the side and murmured, “You’re okay? I mean, I didn’t know—I didn’t know you were going to do that.”  
  
“The rites brought us together,” Draco murmured, and looked down at him. “But I know well enough that if I’m going to keep you, I have to do more than just fuck you in the ritual circle, however well I do  _that_.”  
  
Harry blinked. He had known that he and Draco were making a start on getting to know each other, what with the time they’d spent together and doing some homework in common, but he (carefully) hadn’t thought about how long it would last. He hadn’t thought Draco would be willing to get to know his friends.  
  
“…Oh,” he said softly.  
  
“Yes. Oh.” Draco ruffled his hair a little—he probably didn’t want to kiss him in public when so many people were already staring at them, Harry thought—and then whispered, “I have to get to Potions, too,” before he walked away towards the Slytherin table.  
  
Harry stood gazing after him, and ignored the people who tried to ask him what that was about. They would know soon enough, and he wanted to enjoy his own private happiness a moment longer.  
  
Which resulted in  _him_ having to scurry to Potions, but who cared?  
  
*  
  
“I reckon it’s a start.”  
  
Harry leaned against the table in the empty classroom and sighed a little. Draco had explained to Ron and Hermione exactly what the Ministry had imposed on him and his family, beyond his father’s prison sentence: the fines exacted, the property taken away, the restrictions on spells they could cast. Harry thought they probably would have taken Malfoy Manor, too, if not for the nasty things would have happened to people not of Malfoy descent who lived in the place. As it was, Aurors came and checked constantly on the hidden rooms in the Manor to make sure that Draco and his mother weren’t storing illegal things there.  
  
“So glad you approve, Weasley,” Draco muttered.  
  
Ron bristled. “ _I’m_ not the one who scarred someone’s brother and tormented other innocent people all the way through school!” he said loudly.  
  
Harry would have opened his mouth and moved forwards to defend Draco, but Draco caught his eye, and he held still. Thinking about it later, he could see why Draco hadn’t wanted him to intervene. To stay with Harry long-term, Draco would have to stand up for himself and be accepted by Harry’s friends, or not. Either way, Harry yelling at Ron would just make everything more uncomfortable.  
  
“Right,” said Draco. “But sooner or later, there’s nothing else I can give. I can apologize. I’ll say I’m sorry again, if you like it.” His voice was even. “I can admit that the penalties the Ministry imposed on my family were fair, when we were actual supporters of You-Know-Who. But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life groveling or apologizing, or acting upset that I can’t give more. I’m not going to—I don’t know, go to Azkaban or die like a villain in one of the old stories. I don’t think I deserve that.”  
  
“What if  _I_ do?” Ron challenged. “And Bill might think differently.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “Then you do, and we can’t be around each other.” He turned to look at Harry, and Harry thought he was the only one who could see the thrumming tension in Draco, like a Muggle wire blowing in a high wind. “But I hope you’ll reconsider, if only for Harry’s sake.”  
  
Ron turned purple, but didn’t say anything. Harry knew the signs of him struggling against his anger. He was glad to see it.  
  
“You’re not doing this for us,” said Hermione again, the way she’d said it that morning. “You’re doing it for Harry.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then why do you expect us to  _accept_ it?”  
  
“It’s up to you whether or not you do,” said Draco, and held out a hand. Harry stepped up beside him, and nodded a little. Yes, this had been the best way to handle it, and he was glad that Draco had made him keep silent. Either Ron and Hermione would accept it, or they wouldn’t. Harry couldn’t pressure his friends or Draco one way or the other. “For now, I don’t think there’s anything else I can say. If you’ll excuse us…”  
  
They were halfway to the door when Hermione cleared her throat. “ _Are_ there rituals that can be performed by more than one Light wizard with more than one Dark wizard?” she asked. “Neville was telling me about them.”  
  
A sharp quiver ran through Draco’s hand, and Harry was sure he was dying to say something like, “Then why don’t you ask him?” But Draco only turned around instead, looking mildly interested. “Yes, there are. Not in the book that I showed Harry, though. “  
  
“When is the next time we could do one of them?” Hermione looked at Ron, who only nodded to her, and then back at Draco. “And can people who are engaged participate in them?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco said, blinking a little. Harry smiled. He thought Draco had anticipated Hermione’s interest, but not Ron’s. Perhaps he hadn’t thought Ron would dare participate without Hermione’s permission, either. “The next time is…probably the next full moon.”  
  
“A sort of generic full moon ritual?” Harry asked in a mutter, and Draco nodded next to him.  
  
“Good,” said Hermione. “I’m going to read up on it, and then we’ll join you. So will Neville.”  
  
“I don’t want to be the only Dark wizard there,” Draco said immediately. “I’ll be inviting my mother.”  
  
Hermione blinked, apparently really not having anticipated that, but she nodded. “As long as she has permission to come onto the school grounds.”  
  
“She would have to, to visit me in case something happened at home,” Draco said, and waited. But Hermione and Ron didn’t appear to have any other questions, and he left, with Harry smiling at his friends over his shoulder as he followed.  
  
The minute they were in the corridor, Draco swore a little and let go of Harry’s hands to rake his fingers through his hair. “I know they’re your friends, but  _Merlin,_ they’re bloody inquisitive,” he muttered.  
  
Harry had to chuckle. “Thank you for being willing to include them,” he said. “And apologize.” He hesitated, then stepped up so he could catch Draco’s eye. “I was a little worried that it might be only the rites that were connecting us together, and the connection would end the minute we weren’t doing the rites anymore,” he murmured. “But it’s not that, is it? It’s…us.”  
  
“Believe me, I would never have gone through  _that_ if I didn’t have more than the rites connecting us,” Draco said, and caught his eyes.  
  
Harry leaned up and gently kissed him, and for taking place outside the ritual circle, it was still a pretty good kiss.  
  
*  
  
“We bring to the celebration of the full moon a bowl of water, for the moon to see itself in.”  
  
Hermione’s voice was loud and rich and exultant, remarkable for someone who hadn’t ever performed one of these rites before, Harry thought, and hid a smile. He watched as she placed the bowl—large and silver, more a basin, like a Pensieve—down in the center of the circle that Draco had formed of stones. It steamed for a second, cold curls of mist rising from the surface of the water for no apparent reason. Hermione blinked and took a step back, before a smile formed on her face and she gave a little bow of her head to the basin. Then she turned to Ron, who was holding a piece of blue-green stone that he’d gone to find in Diagon Alley, much like Harry had gone to find the topaz for the original ritual.  
  
“We greet the moon with a shining piece of the earth, which brings another reflection to it.” Unlike Hermione, who had spoken the memorized words as if she hadn’t memorized them at all, Ron’s intoning was careful and precise. He put the blue-green rock down next to the basin, and Harry, arching his neck, caught a glimpse of a dim and blurry lunar reflection in it.  
  
“On behalf of the Light,” said Neville next, moving forwards from his place next to Harry, “we greet the moon with fire, which reminds it of its own light’s origin in the distant sun.”  
  
He had a small twig already lit and crackling with the flame. He placed it carefully on the surface of the water, and it floated there, the flames unquenched, rippling and playing with their reflection in turn. Ron’s face was full of awe, and Hermione’s likewise, as they watched the fire float there.  
  
It was Harry’s turn. He breathed into his hands and moved in with them fiercely cupped, trying to make sure that as little of the air escaped as possible.  
  
“We greet the moon, we Light wizards,” he murmured, “with the gift of breath that plays in our lungs and makes us able to walk under the moon and see its wonders.” He opened his hands immediately atop the stone, which made it sparkle and gleam. Their circle of ritual stones was beside the lake again, and Harry thought he saw the part of the water that reflected the moon  _there_ ripple a moment as if in answer.  
  
Harry glanced across the circle at Draco and Narcissa, who was clad in a white garment that Harry sometimes thought was a gown and sometimes a robe. It had silver sparkling around the hem and the neck, and Narcissa took a long, slow, graceful step forwards, her gaze fixed on the moon and yet somehow beyond it.  
  
“On behalf of the Dark,” she murmured, “we greet the moon, honor its light, and yet insist on the shadows that ever lie beneath it.” She placed a piece of black stone lengthwise across their side of the circle.  
  
“And on behalf of the Dark,” Draco said, moving in with a flourish that Harry thought was directed at him and part of the ritual at the same time, “we ask the side of the moon that is ever hidden and ever present to shine down on us all.” Beside the black stone, he placed a churning handful of what looked like black air, what probably  _was_ black air. Harry didn’t know exactly how he had got it, and didn’t know if he wanted to ask.  
  
For long moments, the moon’s light played over their offerings, and Harry wondered if they would be accepted, after all. The ritual’s magic depended on part on the beliefs and strength of the wizards involved, and he didn’t think their magic had blended particularly well, not like the way his and Draco’s had blended in the first ritual they had done together.   
  
 _Or the second. Or the last._  
  
Harry shivered a little, seeing the secret way Draco’s eyes rested on him. He couldn’t wait until they did it  _outside_ the rites, too, to see what it was like.  
  
Then the moonlight brightened until it was painful looking through it, like looking through a haze or halo of sunlight. Harry blinked, and blinked again, and the brightness built until it flashed out. When he could see again, Hermione’s basin was empty, the twig with the fire had gone out, and the blue stone he and Ron had offered together were entirely gone.  
  
As were the Dark materials from the other side.   
  
Draco was the one who smiled first, the smile breaking over his face like foam, and he held his hands out. “Feel it?” he whispered.  
  
Harry did, the charged air in the center of the circle. It surged and bathed them, and Neville held his hands out immediately after Harry’s, but Ron and Hermione weren’t that far behind. And then Narcissa’s joined them, and a small, shimmering, six-pointed star of light formed in the middle of the ritual circle. There was a bigger, darker star outlining it, Harry realized, which he could see if he squinted.  
  
“It’s shining for us,” Draco murmured, apparently talking to no one at all. “Because we worked together, and made us.”  
  
And Harry knew he was talking about all of them, and that they had all made it together, but he was  _looking_ at Harry as if he meant the two of them alone. Harry could feel his face heat up as he smiled back.  
  
If there were any more curling tendrils of Shadow in his mind, they burned away in that moment, as much defeated by the darkness of his desire as by the light of Draco’s smile.  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
